It had been so long since Tony had been outside in a crowd it nearly overwhelmed him. The stranglehold he had on the power was the only thing that stopped him from scurrying back between the cracks the lost and forsaken people of Moscow fell through, never to be seen again - alive at least.

The dark avenues and eyeless corners had been his home for so long that the 'normal' life made his back itch as slinking through the dangerous underground world would an honest citizen. There, life had been simple. He had power, and power was life. In the open - at least on the surface - the law and morality ruled the day and no amount of power could save him from the CCD hunting dogs.

Despite all of this, he felt alive. The events of the past few days had woken something in him that he had thought lost forever. A desire to achieve, to strive, to survive. A fragment of his old life amongst the elite of Moscow. Of course, he could never return to the spotlight, but there was something he could do. Jaxen had reminded him of that.

So he walked along the streets of Moscow, drinking in the bustling life of street side shopping. The massive coat he wore was a bit too small around the waist - he had to borrow it from Michael since he had no decent clothing to wear out.

With a faint smile that had not faded since he had awoken, Tony spotted the National Bank of Moscow's dreadfully dour eastern branch. Two armed security guards eyed him as he strode through the reinforced sliding glass doors.

The interior of the bank was nondescript. Professional and austere reflecting the pompous self-importance he had seen so often in the high echelons of CCD society. He smiled at the tidy middle aged woman behind the bars of the help desk. She frowned at him, taking in his somewhat less-than-perfect appearance.

"Good morning, a pleasant day,
" he said with some of his old flare re-ignited. She didn't smile - that was disappointing. His skills had grown rusty over the years, and he wasn't the charming rich kid he had been.

Oh well.

"I would like to make a withdrawal,"
he dropped the smile and got down to business. Was it the world that had darkened with him, or was he jaded from years of despair?

The woman pursed her thin lips, the lines of her frown pronounced with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Tony had tried with his own hair this morning - it was thick and long, he hadn't had it cut in years - but it felt like someone was pulling it out of his skull. Perhaps the woman simply liked pain - at least she was in the right profession.

"Sir, the National Bank of Moscow is reserved for the most privil-"

Tony cut her off, weaving a small trick to making his presence dominate the room. Not threatening - he did not want to alert the guards - just dominant. "I know where I am, my sight is not so bad."
he said through clenched teeth. He found he did not have the patience to charm these bastards as he once did. "If you would allow me to speak, I would offer you my credentials."


The woman shut her mouth with a satisfying audible clicking of teeth. She looked at him differently - perhaps he was a rich kid come off a drinking binge.

Which was almost the truth.

Tony pulled out the card from his pocket. It had the name Martin Gorbcheisky embedded in it. He couldn't use his family's name, but back in the early days he had been smart enough to siphon some of the wealth into a fake account with the help of some officials he had befriended once upon a time. He handed the card to the woman who took it with a perturbed expression.

"How much would you like today, Mr. Gorbcheisky?" she said after a moment at the computer. The respect was an addition that only served to piss him off further.

"Twenty thousand CCD,"
he replied in a flat tone.

***

Two hours later Tony adjusted the cuffs of his new jacket, a fine piece of tailoring. It was unlike the silky smooth suits of his youth. The black coat was stiff and precise with gold threaded through with fluid accuracy. His family had a crest - the crown of the Tzar's, a foolish attempt at grandiose. He did not use it, but give them the right amount of money, the tailors could work as fast as lightning.

He had created a new crest. Simple, stark and bold. The golden threads wove a pattern of rebirth, fire and passion. The Phoenix was the symbol of the new Tony risen from the ashes of the old Tony Soloyov. Hardened by pain and death, he was made anew, and nothing would stop him from pursuing his goal.


Edited by Tony Soloyov, Sep 3 2013, 07:52 AM.

Spectra's gown was more carefully layered strips of cloth than an actual dress so that every step, bend, and movement she made seemed to come dangerously close to unraveling the whole thing. Although that was exactly the point.

Green orbs pale as frosted glass shone with all the mirth swirling around her. All other eyes, duller and blander, but filled with envy followed her breathtaking journey through the club. Heavy lashes defined their perfect symmetry and were two sparkling jewels perched atop the line of her cheekbones. The electric light of Manifesto struck and sparkled the copper of her skin and bounced blue from the seeming black night of her hair which was twisted to one side and cascading romantic curls down the front of her shoulder.

Outside this world, she was the supermodel sprawled across building ads blinking seduction and controversy in the effort to sell perfume, lingerie, lipstick, anything worthy of her face.

In here, she was a spider surveying the tunnels of her world, roaming and waiting for which fly was brave enough to come close. For the time, Spectra deigned to waft from the cacophony of the main club venue toward the private, luxurious lounges off Block One.

Where, as soon as she was shown in, she was met by the faces of modern day Lords garbed in an array of traditional white thawb, tunics, and long headdresses. She smiled gloriously at the reception and was welcomed with opened arms.

Many tales over the ages speak of a woman scorned who has her terrible revenge in one form or another. This is the idea of a great beauty twisted by hatred and spoiled by evil, and is thus diminished for it. These women are often known as queens of darkness, terrifying sorceresses, miscreant fairies, or evil witches. They often have a female rival, these women, and a man who has wronged her, broken a promise, or discarded her for another. The stories of these women cross time and culture, but reflect the same horrid virtue: a lust for power, and in the history of womankind, power is born from beauty.

A witch in the Arthurian legend known as Hellawes was one such woman. She died of a broken heart after being rejected by Lancelot’s love.

In Hebrew mythology, the first wife of Adam, Lilith, claimed to be his equal and when they quarrelled she left in a rage, eventually spawning innumerable demons which continue to plague mankind to this day.

But what passes as history into legend and legend into myth, eventually fades to nothing more than mere fairy tale, all linked by the same characteristics. A vengeful lust for power, a quest to be the fairest in the land, and the wielding of dark magic.

The story of the princess Fiorimonde was one about the daughter of a king who used an evil witch to turn herself into the fairest woman in all the land. This princess used a magical artifact, a necklace, to maintain her ascension over others.

Through the use of witchcraft, a queen sometimes known as Grimhilde, lusts to slay the beauteous rival which was prophesied to unseat her power. The fairy tale was based on the ancient celtic tale of Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree, but in the germanic tale, a magical artifact, a mirror, aids the queen’s magic.

There are some fairy tales, however, so old that even the names of the women involved shift, fade, or have been lost forever.

One ancient fairy tale, perhaps the most fantastical of them all, is the tale of seven fairies invited to be godmothers to an infant princess. However, an eighth wicked fairy, overlooked and forgotten by the king and queen, curses the child princess, known as Talia, d’Aurora, or Briar Rose, with prophetic death at her sixteenth year of age. The wicked fairy has come to be known as “the Mistress of all Evil,” but her true name was long ago lost to the turning of time. In the folklore of modern storytelling, her identity was assigned the following name, a portmanteau of her greatest characteristics: malevolent and magnificent, and thus, is only known to us as the figure, Maleficent.



APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY

Spectra has the shape of a supermodel. Tall with legs that run for a mile. Her sensuality is physical, but it is also carnal. She is confident and direct, and entertains no possibility of rivals vying for another’s attention. She has been betrayed too many times to trust anyone but herself, but that is not to say her loyalty cannot be bought; in fact, it has been. With sultry cinnamon hair, coppery skin and mint green eyes that pierce the clouds,, she is easily the most beautiful woman in the room. But it is a mysterious elegance that she adorns like a diadem. She is a celebrity only to those exposed to the underworld of seduction: video, print, and the runway. To everyone else, Spectra Lin is a face to shame them into subservience. She has a larger than life smile and volcanic personality. Her laugh is infectious, though often aimed at others. She moves with all the heat and passion of a Latina born, but also with the languid, cat-like tease of which her Egyptian ancestors once worshipped. To them, Spectra would have been a queen, a goddess, worshipped by the Pharaohs and Kings of old.


POWERS


Spectra has been channeling since the age of eighteen. It began shortly after the betrayal by those whom she trusted which left her homeless and desperate. The first time it happened, she was afraid, tired, and angry. All the emotions which left her to duck from shadow to shadow, half afraid to be seen and half hoping to land a good enough job to eat the next day, boiled into this one moment. She couldn’t take it anymore: his sweaty gut; his vice-like grip; the stink of his cock. His heart stopped then and there, his filthy body crumpled to a bulbous shape at her feet, and Spectra stood calm and thoughtful, cringing at the stink collapsed before her, and fully aware of what she’d done - after all, she’d felt his heart throbbing hard in her mind as that which he pressed against her legs. She rearranged her dress afterward and rummaged for the cash he’d promised her. Of course he had none, and Spectra spit away the blood in her mouth in disgust. A week later, she huddled feverish and sick in her hole, but there was nobody to check on her, nobody to report her, nobody to care. Not until the Americans came, and by then, she was well adept at squeezing the life out of a man when she wanted. They put her to good use.



BIOGRAPHY


Spectra Lin was born Lola Fatima Cruz, the daughter of a middle-powered lord in the Gulf Cartel based in Havana and a sultry, egyptian heiress from Cairo. For such a small island, Cuba was the mighty hub of trafficking, with shipments from West Africa and South America converging on the waterways on route to the US eastern seaboard. Her father played a dangerous game. On one hand, his power rose quietly alongside the violent rivals in the area, namely the Garces and Zambada families. While Manuel Cardenas Cruz gained an international reputation for brutality and murder, his traffickers posed as legitimate businessmen who regularly traveled in and out of Egypt, Senegal and Nigeria. Such was how the brash young Manuel found, and fell obsessively in love with, Lola’s sultry mother. This unique criminal enterprise initially involved itself in counterfeiting and kidnapping, but over the course of time expanded into high-stakes smuggling and muling rather than production, not to mention participation in a thriving sex trade. Especially in and out of CCD nations which maintains an illegal stance against pedophilia, defined as youths less than seventeen years of age, despite their widespread legalization of prostitution.

Manuel was an ambitious man, and while his rivals seemed to underestimate this middling threat in their midst, the US did not. Of all the capos, he was the only one who also an asset of the CIA, in exchange for their turning a blind eye to his movements in business interests, he allowed the CIA usage of a dirt airstrip on the outskirts of his land for movement and points of contact in and out of the area. Of course, eventually he was discovered, and with blood in the water, the Garces and Zambada families conspired to disassemble this traitor. When two US federal agents were found dead on Manuel’s lands, the working relationship with the United States ended in violent bloodshed.

Young Lola, a young child at the time, was sold into the very sex trade her father operated. She was just another girl, though a fiery, bright eyed, and striking one, but anonymous nonetheless. Though not so young that she does not remember her life in Cuba, the presence of her parents, or the languages they taught her.

In this underworld, a diamond in the rough is rarely found, but when discovered, she becomes coveted for the jewel she is: pure profit carved from perfect flesh. At eleven years of age, she was bought by a Colombian who liked to “adopt” the online faces advertised as perfection, and Spectra was layered with the intensity for which she was groomed. She was a woman at this seemingly young age, and met her new ‘family’ in a body clinging gown, mature curls cascading her hair, and the careless gaze of pale green eyes, piercing and daring against her coppery skin. Online she easily passed for a CCD legal, but in Colombia, it hardly mattered. Especially when floating from room to room. By thirteen, she was a carrot dangled to entice Americans and Custody officials alike. Her charms wooed prime ministers, generals, and CEO’s, anyone and everyone with the balls to duck through the Colombian crossfire and strike a deal with the country’s most powerful.

Power exploded around her. She endured the threats of hitmen. She watched lieutenants rise and fall. She witnessed women beloved by their followers launder profits through legitimate channels. She realized the buyoffs her world purchased. And more to the point, she didn’t care about any of it. No more than whatever was aimed directly at her at least. The world beyond the fields and fences of her life was pure fantasy. Unreachable as the bright sun in the sky. Pure fantasy. Ambition to Spectra was only what she could hold in the palm of her hand: whether it be diamond earrings or a member capable of actually pleasing her for once, although the latter was far rarer than any diamond. It wasn’t until she was a sultry, experienced eighteen year old that she finally realized her scope on life was far too narrow.

Although she was unaware, her life was about to come full circle. She was in Bogotá when she was first approached. By CCD agents. Aiding their cause meant nothing to her. Bringing down the largest cartel in the country meant nothing to her. She was not a nun, nor was she a samaritan. Spectra was the personification of purchased loyalty. On that day, she became a mercenary; one of charm and seduction. It would take six months before she earned her payoff. A triumph which had nothing to do with money caught in the breeze. On that day, the CCD cleared the path of old adversaries, but with the head cut from the monster, a dozen more sprung in its place, crawling and grasping to fill the void. On that day, Spectra won what she finally wanted--

--the world.

Freedom was a drug to her. Yet at this terribly ignorant age, she expected the CCD would live up to the promises they made. To set her up abroad. To give her money. A way out of the den of slavery and advance into the glamour of celebrity.

She never heard from them again.

Destitute and poor, having traded a slave’s life of silk, jewels and food for a liberty of starvation, wounds, pornography and rape, Spectra often regretted making such a deal with the devil. Until a second devil knocked on her door - ‘door’ being an optimistic word for the blanket draped over a tin box.

They introduced themselves as Americans, agents or soldiers, Spectra didn’t care, but unlike the previous deal that left her vile and bitter, she demanded retribution up front before giving up a single detail of the Custody’s interests in Colombia. It was clear to the Agents that this slumbering snake was full of poison, but she was clearly available to strike at their enemies for the right price.

America could not grant her amnesty in their nation, but they could give her something better.

Opportunity.

She was suddenly “discovered” by a New York talent recruiter. Headhunters for the modeling industry on location in the jungles of Colombia. The coppery skinned, dark haired, green eyed jungle beauty was flown into a whole new world after that. Spectra sold herself once more, but to the adoring eyes of fans not to the hands of vicious customers. Her career took on rapid momentum, and within a year she was walking the streets of Moscow - the pinnacle for any such career. Every so often she is continually contacted by those same American agents, only one of which is from the original team that purchased her loyalty - thin as it is, the other, she was told died in Dominance V.

The scope of her ambition has certainly grown. Spectra Lin has access to the most privileged of circles. She comes from a mysterious past, which all assume blossomed since her career began in New York. She otherwise has no birth certificate, no identity, and no genetic past. She was an orphan as far as anyone knows, an orphan which survived hell, and is determined to never surrender to it again.

She continues to model, or dance, or star in adult film, though for world-class fees. On nights she graces the live stage, the theater sells out. Her company is never turned down, and she has been seen on the arm of the CCD elite, dating the city’s nouveau riche, and rumored to have been invited to the Kremlin itself; although that last is pure speculation. There is something deep and ancient to Spectra - who rather than labelled as a slut, porn star, or escort, her elegance and poise comes from somewhere within, somewhere magnificent.




PROFILE


Name: Spectra Lin, born Lola Fatima Cruz.

Date of birth: 2020

Place of birth: Havana, Cuba

Lineage: Cuban and Egyptian

Languages: Spanish and English

Profession: Adult industry and model, American informer

Channeler: With an innate ability to kill, probably also to Heal.

Reborn figure: The Mistress of all Evil, Maleficent. A very early figure from the Age of Gods, the 5th Age, and instrumental in channelers arising over non-channelers as rulers, with a particular hatred of her chief rival in both beauty, strength, and charm. Her associated figure is a dragon. Colors are red, black, and purple.
Edited by Spectra Lin, Aug 30 2013, 02:41 PM.

I'm new. Kind of shy. Kind of.

I wanted to say I really think this place is great! I've been trying to decide whether to join for a while but I am ready to go now!

cheers.

Was chatting with Mickey V about this earlier, and came to conclude I'm going to take a shot at interpreting how the myths about Loki explain how he was as a channeler.  And first and foremost, the guy was not a queen.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  *Grin.

Any one else keen on tapping out the back-story explanation about their past lives?  I'm kind of digging on the explanation of Claire/Atropos, Jon/Coyote, and all. *tips hat.

Short of coming across the Glass Columns somewhere, it's not as though any of us will be aware of what went down back in the day.  But it'd be interesting to see how other people interpret the modern myths.

The team flew in together. Nicholas met with the two agents at JFK where the three of them embarked on the long, tiring journey that ended with Moscow. The travel arrangements were first class, but still, first class on commercial airlines paled in comparison to private jets.

The route through customs was usual enough. They weren't a camera crew, so other than computers, technology, and related equipment there was nothing extraordinary to them which needed searching.

Nicholas had done as he promised Agent Abrams and memorized the information which was distributed to him beforehand. And Abrams questioned Nicholas sharply, just in case. There were communication protocols to learn, plans to coordinate, and layouts to manage. At one point Abrams even asked Nicholas if he had any firearms training, and after which, promised to show the man a thing or two once they arrived in Moscow.

The flight in was otherwise uneventful. Once in a while Reed would signal and she and Abrams would separate themselves from their package for a quick chat. Sometimes Reed disappeared altogether, only to reappear at the gate to their connecting flight. Abrams never seemed concerned about her absences, and explained them to Nicholas as only representing the work she carried out. She was in charge of surveillance and protection, of course, and at her direction, changed their dinner reservations at the last minute on one of their layovers.

Finally, luggage collected and no shortage of wear and tear from traveling, they were picked up from their terminal by a Kremlin driver. Reed checked his credentials, then nodded her approval that the group go with him, and mid-morning Moscow, they were dropped at the Ritz-Carlton, Moscow, across the street from the Red Square.

They were shown to the three bedroom suite they would share for the duration of this trip, but Reed left her luggage with Abrams and ducked out. Motioning that she was going to do a casual walk-around, which in CIA language meant a perimeter search.

Their room was the epitome of luxury complete with down comforters, marble baths and Russian imperial style furnishings. A traditional array of tea party foods greeted them, cuisine styled to date back to the 18th century. Prosciutto wrapped asparagus, caviar lined smoked salmon, truffled zucchini, glistening fruits, jams and breads, and decadent truffles were stacked elegantly alongside hand-painted china trimmed with gold edging. Real gold edging.

Abrams told Nicholas he would be staying in the room farthest from the entrance, which placed two CIA agents between himself and anyone which might try to get inside.

He deposited their luggage to their appropriate rooms and soon enough was on his private phone, spinning off into Russian like he were born to it.

His accent was clear then. He was based in Moscow. This was his turf, his base of operations, and Nicholas was caught up in the middle of it.

Age: 24

Origin: Berlin, Germany in Dominance VII.

Reborn God: Yes, he's the personification of Mars the Roman God of war and agriculture. While he is the opposite side of the same coin with Ares, Mars was a revered as a God of Life rather than hated as the bloodthirsty, tyrannical, warmonger that Ares himself was. It is assumed that Mars was the second only in terms of worship to Jupiter.

A young man born in Dominance VII to Susana, a Swedish immunologist and Xavier a retired member of the GSG 9 section of the military police and an ER nurse. Both work at Berlin General Hospital.

Alric worked as a model in his teenage years before joining the D-VII military for a small stint. Using his previous jobs training he was moved into the recruitment side of the military and worked as the poster boy for many of the propaganda the military produced.

After his contract was up he resumed his modelling career. Mainly continuing his work as a model for private security firms throughout the Dominances.


Edited by Alric Xavier Rainer, Aug 26 2013, 04:59 PM.

Before I went off any did anything, I thought I'd ask you guys. Mikey and Tony are both currently free if anyone has any ideas about a thread. Even if you don't have any ideas and just want to jump in a thread, PM me and we can work something out.

I know Giovanni was trying to use the chatroom from his phone and Jax too (not that he cares ).

So I thought I'd post some basic information.

The server we are one is: irc.mibbit.com
The channel we are in is: #thefirstage

That is all the information you need to get into the chat with out going through the app on site.

There are several Android apps you can use. And I'm sure there are several iOS apps too. The supply for desktop/laptop apps might be a bit slimmer, But pidgin is free to use and can be used with IRC with the information above.

I can help with Android and with Pidgin, as that's what I have, but once you get inside your app of choice you'll only need the information above.

If you don't see a way to enter chat from your app just type /join #thefirstage in the text entry field


Edited by Aria, Nov 30 2014, 12:16 PM.

Jaxen’s usual haunt was Manifesto. The place was it. Literally, it, and had been for years. In the fickle world of clubbing, that kind of trophy didn’t sit long on the mantle. Yet somehow Manifesto kept that baby front and center.

Therefore, because his usual haunts were places Jaxen was tending to avoid at the moment, he ended up trying out the not-a-strip-club club known as Kallisti house of burlesque. He gave the place credit. It was a good name. Burlesque? It was catchy, and when reminded of its presence, Jaxen was quick to nod, shrug and hail a cab.

Since splitting from Tony’s shack down by the river, he’d managed to produce a few wardrobe changes without ever having gone home. A guy can’t be expected to run around Moscow threadbare after all. And no matter how much fame, fortune and cash someone threw around, Face Check could ban A-list celebrities from top-notch venues; super models might be told to go home and change if deemed underdressed. That was the kind of humiliation Jaxen was smart enough to avoid with the meager effort of forethought.

Of course, Kallisti welcomed him with open arms. As if there were ever any doubt. On his worst day he was a good looking guy, and on his best, well--suffice to say, he didn’t mind the spotlight. With the fragrance of expense, free cash, and a loose hand - from his perfectly tousled hair, the dot of a black diamond in one lobe, and the supple step of handmade leather shoes, he was the poster child of Kallisti's target demographic.

He landed on velvet and silk. Somewhere with table service, of course, and a top shelf view. Sank back comfortably, propped his feet up, loosened the narrow tie tucked between his purposefully disheveled collar and trend-setting, body-hugging vest and waved himself over some service, the epitome of a king in his own little castle of sin.

Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 22 2013, 10:24 AM.